


Bride

by Marksfabulousbutt



Category: Outlast (Video Games)
Genre: Child Abandonment, Implied Childhood Sexual Abuse, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Psychological Trauma, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-22
Updated: 2020-07-22
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:41:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25441834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marksfabulousbutt/pseuds/Marksfabulousbutt
Summary: Your not sure of anything anymore.
Relationships: Eddie Gluskin/Waylon Park
Comments: 2
Kudos: 21





	Bride

**Author's Note:**

> brain no go to sleep so brain stayed up and put this shit out cuz apparently its good?

He haunted your dreams. Your nightmares. Sometimes, when you dream, you think of being able to over power him. To break him like he did you. To hold him down, just by his neck and watch him choke and splutter, weak arms desperately trying to push you off.

Those nights you wake sweating, your lower half warm under the dress, his large arm draped around your midsection. Those nights you wish you could push him over and sit on his neck until he wakes up, and his last image is you, grinning shark like.

But you don't. You can't. He's the only thing protecting you from those monsters. You wouldn't survive. But... you're so close... so close to the male ward key, that you could just run.... You could run and make it to it.

Nightmares remind you too much of Lisa getting stuck here too. Her entrails being ripped out. Her body being used. You couldn't. Your brain haunts you. It's never enough. It's always too much.

You've managed to keep him in check. He hasn't hurt you, and won't. Can't. Your brain sometimes helpfully supply yourself images of him splitting you open. Forcing himself inside you.

And you let him, because you could control him this way. Could force him to watch you pleasure yourself. He's nothing but a toy for his bride. It's maddening. It's sickening. He's only sparing you because you look womenly. You looke like a blushing bride with blue eyes and blond hair. "Pretty boy." Runs through your head.

Pretty boy from father, mother, college roomates, women, men. Pretty boy you've got there. Pretty man you've got there. Sorry Ma'am. How can you be a ma'am when you look like a man.

You have the shoulders. The chest. Why are you so pretty? Why hasn't he taken your life?

You're sure he's debated it. When you're being rather fierce. Denying. Angry. Crying. Annoying. When his moods flip flop like a fish out of water. You're never trying to anger him. He just believes you'll leave. You'll pack your bridal bags and leave. Not even have a honeymoon with him.

Your dress is getting dirty. Your feet hurt, and the shattered glass and splinters in them only worsen it. You think your wounds are infected. It's only a matter of time before it reaches your blood. Only a matter of time before you end up like the rotting bodies on the ceiling.

You ask Eddie to find a first aide. And a promise you won't leave (the thought of being split apart.) He hesistates. But notices you can't even stand.

Your leg isn't healing. Your brain isn't healing. You aren't healing. Loops. The same images. The bodies. The Walrider. You were so close. The spliting. The buzzsaw. Jeremy Blaire. Eddie's face.

Eddie's face. Eddie's face. Starting Walrider. You could've stopped it. Could've let it gone wrong. Could've killed Eddie then and there to let his misery go.

You started it all.

Eddie can't find anything medical. Everything's locked and behind steel doors. His shoulders only good for something, and thats lifting you up and over, taking you to the bathroom. Bathroom. Hiding in the lockers when he walked by, listening to his hum, watching him open the locker across from you, watching him sigh in disappointment.

You freeze when you're set down, candles and the light streaming from the windows the only source. It's dark, probably need a better light source than an down to the wick candle.

You cry out when he starts to work glass, pus, and splinters from your wounds. He's cleaning you up, holding a hand on your knee (so, so close.) How does he keep a striaght face? Because of how many people he's castrated. How many people he's seen infected, wounded, nothing phases him. Maybe its a clinical view. No emotions attached to pushing pus from a infected foot.

Emotions attached to finding a bride. (Why are you perfect?) Emotions attached to be sexually abused. (Why'd you hurt me dad, uncle?) Emotions attached to abandoment. (Why'd you leave, mom?) Eddie gets attached. Clinging too close. He's hurt. He's injured. (So are you.)

You're being split open. Your pelvis is shattered. Your insides are now outside your body. You aren't alive. And yet you are. Sitting there with his palm against your smooth thigh, (cut a little bit here,) How are you here? You thought you'd fight him.

You're too weak. Your blood isny yours anymore. He's splitting you open, knife spreading you open, more amd more, and you feel numb, watching his fingers dig inside you.

It's funny, like an itch you can't scratch. His fingers soaked with your blood, feeling him push your stomach, feeling the gentle touch against your inners. You feel wet. Sticky. Is it your blood or arousal?

You close your eyes.

He's the last thing you see.


End file.
